


Movement

by the_charm_caster



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Clark is mesmerized, Idiots in Love, M/M, Sexual Tension, When you move- I move, Yeah its that Hozier song, as we all are, dont they?, just say it already Clark, they always save each other, we love you Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:41:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_charm_caster/pseuds/the_charm_caster
Summary: Clark gets obsessed with the way Bruce's body moves. Will he realise that he is also obsessed with Bruce himself?





	Movement

**Author's Note:**

> Title and story inspired by Hozier's song of the same name. "When you move, I move".  
> There is slight voyeurism in text, and mention of a little heavier voyeurism off-screen. Come on guys, Clark is watching Bruce all the time okay? Voyeurism is obvious.  
> Also, Bruce gets turned to a woman once. That just gives Clark more reasons to obsess with Bruce's body.  
> All mistakes are mine.

He could fly.

He could tread across a room without making a noise, climb mountains without breaking a sweat, cross oceans without getting wet. In his uniform, he could commandeer the room with his gait. In his glasses, he would stumble after every seven steps, give or take. He could lift satellites, muscles flexing like Atlas. He could catch baby birds falling from their nests, palms as gentle as their mother’s wings.

He could float with a dancer’s grace, feet a few inches off the water’s surface like some divine reincarnation. He could dig his feet into Terra, dirt flying off in every direction, arms straining to hold against some other-worldly colossal, saving the world.

His stance was a painter’s dream, a poet’s musings, a writer’s inspiration. And yet, he, himself, was stolen by the movements of another. A partner from the shadows. A piper, along whose song he would sway. A puppeteer who had strings attached to his limbs and his heart.

 

* * *

  

> Flight

Junior Reporter Kent from the Daily Planet had been kidnapped, along with a bunch of other journalists at a merger party in Gotham. His ears, hypersensitive, listening to the goons decide whom to threaten first, caught the sharp sound of the grapple blade slicing through the air. He heard the wind catching in the caped wings of the Bat and turned his head to the southwest window a few seconds before the boot hit the pane. The glass shattered, broken pieces flying everywhere, and the rest of the group turned towards the sound, like background dancers following Clark’s lead, looking at the window. The Bat flew in, a dark shadow between the twinkling lights. So graceful, for a second Clark thought he had found someone else who could touch the clouds like him. But then he landed, almost feline, and something about the resounding ‘thud’ told Clark this creature was not aerial. Something basal, grounding, like vines wrapping around a fleeting bird, holding it down. Thorny leaves, winding around his heart. A diamond-laden cord, binding him.

  

> Strut

Bruce Wayne came to greet his new employees when Wayne Industries acquired the Planet. He walked out of the elevators, double-breasted suit, one hand in his pocket, like he owned not only the building, but the very air they breathed in. He was radiant, not like the sun, but like stars, omnipresent, even when naked eyes couldn’t make them out during the daytime. He seemed genial, but had the room wrapped around his manicured fingertips. Like he wasn’t the lead who threatened you in the spotlight. He was the understudy, waiting in the shadows for an opportunity. Heartbeats skipped and hormones rose as he made his way across the room. By the time he stepped in front of Clark, Lois was blushing hard and Kat was shivering, both of them staring at the back of their hands, which Bruce had kissed like a seventeenth-century knight. His handshake was warm, and his handsome face made you want to tell him all your secrets. He would keep them safe, you could trust him. But his eyes. _Oh_ , his eyes, shimmering like a hypnotist’s crystal, swaying you to his rhythm. As if he could see his House’s emblem on Clark’s chest right through his clothes.

  

> Shiver

The Bat jumped in front of the jade light that blasted from the kryptonite canon. There was a sizzling noise, and his body shook, as if in a seizure.

“No!” screamed Luthor, who had used the last of his strength to aim the nozzle at Superman.

“No!” screamed Superman at the same time, love and hatred aside. He caught the falling Bat in his arms and gently laid him down. His heartbeat was faint, but Superman still found it. That was the last thing he remembered before his eyes went red.

He had been working with Gotham’s Batman for quite a while now. Almost trusting the mask, almost believing they were friends. And then he found out the secret identity of the vigilante. And that Bruce had known about his identity for some time now. And that he had planned to kill him. Things got messy.

He didn’t know what to trust anymore. Were all their missions a coup? Was it all a plan to lure him to his death? His eyes flashed red, and they had separated in the middle of the assignment, Batman vowing never to return to Metropolis again, Superman spitting acid in return.

Superman had flown to the abandoned warehouse alone, looking for Luthor, who Batman was sure was the mastermind behind the murdered importers. The air was laced with Kryptonite particles, as he found out, _way_ late, but in his defence, Superman did put up a fight, nonetheless. Luthor charged the canon, singing a soliloquy about coup de grâce while Superman fought off the thugs attacking from all sides.

His heart was beating fast, and maybe that’s why he missed the steady beating of Batman’s heart when he jumped in between Superman and what would definitely have been the end of the Man of Steel.

“Kryptonite wouldn’t harm me,” Batman grumbled when Superman flew him back to the manor. He was still shivering; aftereffects of Luthor’s weapon, but refused to admit it.

“And the radiations?” Superman spat.

But he smiled when Bruce grunted and turned his face away. At least he was alive.

  

> Waltz

Bruce Wayne slipped his fingers lower, _lower_ on the exposed back of the Latina singer, her skin dark and smooth. He moved lower, caressing the red satin on her hips like a musician warming up before a concert, and Clark heard her sigh from across the hall. He blushed, ducking his head, trying to tune out the waltz vibrating on the untasted champagne flute he held so carefully. His eyes betrayed him, of course, and he traced the edges of the dark tuxedo, of Bruce’s body lining up perfectly with the woman in red. They spun in circles, aligning with the crystal chandeliers above them, the marble fountains around them, the polished mosaic below them. Round and round they spun, and Clark watched, mesmerized, as if Bruce was wrapping his soul with satin ribbons. Ribbons bleeding red, like the dress of the woman in his arms. Clark could smell the roses in her hair, could sense the warmth and protection Bruce offered within the circle of his arms. Bruce would give her the world; he spun her with one arm behind his back. Bruce would give her pleasure; he wrapped his fingers with hers, feet moving with the cellos. Bruce would make her fly; he dipped her, arms supporting all her weight gently.

When the tempo slowed down, Bruce held her close, lips gently kissing her hair, her ears. It wasn’t meant to have a gentle effect though. They spun, and Clark could see her ruby painted nails digging into the tuxedoed back. They spun again, her dress creating a soft breeze that raised goosebumps on Clark’s arms, still across the hall. Bruce put a finger under her chin and delicately tilted her face up, leaning in for a kiss. And that was the moment when he, with his lips inches away from the beautiful woman, looked up, straight at Clark, who stopped breathing and spilt champagne on his borrowed suit.

  

> Spar

Bruce dodged Diana’s blows for the umpteenth time, pushing his hair back, resuming his defensive stance again. He huffed, sweat trickling down his throat into his muted greys, and changed his stance into an attacking one. Diana, with her hair tied back like a shieldmaiden, smiled, encouraging Bruce to attack. Bruce pushed his arm forward, wrist moving fast, as if he were speed painting. While Diana figured out the movement, he lunged forward, the other hand punching and pulling back. Diana blocked the punch, but she was seconds late defending the round kick Bruce delivered without stopping. Diana staggered, her platinum-gold training suit reflecting the overhead lights.

Superman let out a whoosh of air, smiling when Bruce won the round. Whenever he was actually in the field with Batman, his attention was completely diverted by the goonies around him, and he could never observe Bruce the way he could now. The sharpness, the speed, the stealth.

“So, these symbols look weird to you too?” Barry asked, confused. Superman focused on the speedster in front of him guiltily.

Right. The occultic symbols popping around Central City like graffiti. “I, uh,” Clark had no idea what Barry had just said. “Look, Barry, I am no expert in these things,” he said, honestly. “But I will look into it for you, okay?”

Barry lit up like Superman had promised him the world, and nodded excitedly. “Thanks, Big Blue!”

By the time Barry left and Clark looked up at the sparring session in the training area, Diana had hooked Bruce’s legs between hers and was levering Bruce’s upper body like dead weight. Bruce fell down on the mat with a thud, Diana immediately moving to pin him down with a knee.

“How’s sparring with a thousand-year-old goddess working out for you?” Diana asked, a loose strand of her hair dancing mid-air.

“Didn’t you say five hundred last time?” Bruce asked, breathing hard. “Which one is it?”

“Ah,” she smiled, getting up. “That’s a mystery for the great detective of Gotham to solve.” She offered a hand to Bruce, who was still flat on the mat. He took her hand, huffing a smile.

“Thank you, Princess,” Bruce said as they both bowed to each other, ending the bout.

“You are getting better, Bruce,” Diana commented like an ancient teacher. “Almost one-upped me. Almost,” she added again when she saw the smirk on Bruce’s face.

Clark smiled automatically. He loved watching the two warriors training with each other. It was like watching a live action movie, right in front of him. They fought as if the whole thing was choreographed beforehand. Of course, Superman had no expertise here, his unnatural strength never needing strategies and techniques like these.

Maybe one day he could ask Bruce to teach him a few techniques. If not for the utility, then simply for the exhilaration. Plus, learning it from a seasoned martial artist like Bruce seemed like an opportunity he shouldn’t miss. Maybe, with enough practice, he could move like Bruce too.

One day, when he gathered enough courage. Right now, he watched Bruce towel off his sweaty hair and walk towards the lockers.

  

> Camouflage

Clark froze, stopped breathing, bunching his cape in one hand so that it didn’t flutter in the wind. Matches Malone tilted his head up, and Clark could feel his eyes on him from twenty kilometres below. As a precaution, he had even zoomed behind a creepy gargoyle, but what was a few inches of stone and marble to the Bat, right?

Malone grunted, hunched his shoulders and sped into an alley. Clark struggled to follow, eyes losing track of the shadowy figure every now and then. He walked in the darkness, seemingly knowing where every pit and puddle in the cobblestone was. He stopped at a dumpster fire, warming his hands, and if Clark weren’t paying razor-sharp attention, he would’ve missed the words Malone said when he raised his palms to warm his face.

The homeless man in front of him pointed to a ramshackle brownstone, and Malone huffed in reply. He stood there for a few more seconds, warming his hands again, staring into the fire. Clark was sure if he hadn’t been following him since the very beginning, he would’ve never recognized Bruce in his disguise, chewing the titular matchstick without any worries in this world. Malone not only looked and smelled different, but his gait was also completely unrecognizable- favouring his right leg a little, and using his left hand for everything. He even knew a noticeable number of vagrants in the area, muttering a word or two, or nodding at people he passed.

Moments later, he shrugged off the tiny gathering and started moving towards the brownstone. Clark could hear jazz music seeping from the building. He flew in the same direction, landing in the alley nearby to observe him closely. He waited in the shadows, feeling paranoid with every passing second- Gotham had that effect on him every time. He had lost Malone, of course. He closed his eyes in concentration, looking for the heartbeat he had memorized. Oh _no_ , it sounded very close, almost as if-

“Alien,” Malone drawled with a downtown Gotham accent. The rim of his hat covered his eyes and Clark could only see the matchstick moving to the music in the background. The whole scene was out of a Seventies noir.

Clark froze, heart beating fast.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Malone said, hands in his pockets, one leg on the wall against which he leaned.

Clark couldn’t get a word out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried.

Malone sighed, pushing up and moving towards Clark.

“I- I can explain,” Clark finally stammered, feeling like a cornered prey.

Malone took the matchstick from his mouth, struck it on the wall, and, _oh Rao above,_ it actually _lit_. Was Clark in a Black and White movie? Malone lifted it close to Clark’s face. So close that Clark could feel the heat despite the chilly weather.

“Wouldn’t want you to _burn_ ,” he drawled, eyes glittering in the light like a predator’s.

Clark nodded. He was only here to stop Bruce from taking a rash decision anyways. The League was at a standstill, and frustrated, Batman had stormed out, saying that he would solve the case on his own now. Superman, worried, had decided to survey. And intervene, if required.

Not that he’d confess that to Matches Malone, who was currently threatening him with fire to his face. That wouldn’t affect Superman, and Clark was sure Bruce knew that. Or would it? Malone had said it with so much conviction that Clark was unsure now.

Malone raised his eyebrows, waiting for Clark to answer.

“No,” Clark whispered. Should he fly away? Could he even _move_?

Malone huffed, discarding the matchstick. “Relax, would ya, son?” he asked, smiling. Clark didn’t like the look at _all_ ; it was purely animalistic. He turned towards the brownstone again, waiting for Clark.

“I’ll leave?” Clark said, unsure. Malone huffed again.

  

> Flow

“This one is called Heaven and Earth,” Dick explained, shaking his legs. Clark watched Bruce stretch his arms, warming up for his Tai Chi practice in the training area of the Cave.

Superman had been in a fatal match with Darkseid, and had Diana and Bruce not stepped in time, he wouldn’t be sitting here, talking slow laboured breaths with Dick next to him.

It was pretty difficult convincing Batman when he had set his mind to something, and “ _only the Sun lamps in the Cave will help you, you absolute idiot.”_

Clark had planned to move the lamps Bruce had designed for him, to the Fortress, but then there was an earthquake in Japan, and then the Metropolis Meteors had lost their third consecutive match, and finally Darkseid had decided to play a death match with the League.

And so, in the aftermath, Clark was grounded to his cot in the Cave, soaking in photons from the sun lamps while getting bored out of his mind. Dick, ever excited around him, had dropped by, bringing him snacks, his laptop, notebooks, and anything else he needed.

Right now, Dick was sitting cross-legged next to him on his cot, both of them watching Bruce has he performed his quotidian rituals. Clark always liked the Tai Chi movements, and today, he had Dick to explain what Bruce was doing.

Bruce’s eyes were far away, as if watching the universe, the stars, the movement of the planets, and his body flowed with him, hand and palms and feet. He drifted with some unknown energy, and though far away, Clark could feel the bubble of peace around him while Dick ticked off names like _needle at sea bottom_ and _playing lute_ and _white crane spreads its wings._ Clark watched, mesmerized. So exotic, just like Bruce.

He had been wondering for a few days- in the movies they showed the sensei practising the moves under the open sky, with grass under their feet, connecting to nature directly. How could Bruce do it underground, with the bats screeching in the distance, and Alfred tinkering with the gadgets, and the Wayne boys arguing in the vicinity?

_Oh._

Today it hit him- Bruce didn’t need his body outside in nature to connect; his mind was the key. And the look in his eyes: Bruce was definitely one with the Earth and the Sky at the moment, and watching him brought Clark nothing but peace.

He could feel his own body itching to move with Bruce, to mimic his movements. Clark didn’t know if this was the gravitation of the energy around Bruce, or if this was Bruce himself, gracefully pulling Clark towards him.

“Kent,” Bruce said, his face neutral, and Clark snapped out of the reverie. Bruce had his back towards them, and he was still far away, in the training area, so Clark wasn’t sure if he was imagining the reprimand.

“To join me, you need to heal,” Bruce said, turning towards them. He was…whispering, and Clark realized the message was only for him, Dick frowning beside him.

“Looks like Bruce is done, Supes,” Dick said, getting up. “I better get going before I’m grounded like you,” he said, laughing.

When Clark looked back, Bruce was gone.

  

> Grind

“Welcome _whom_ -?” Clark spat the drink he was sipping to maintain his cover, trying to recall what the speakers had just announced. If he had heard her correctly.

Superman’s crest lit the curtains, and a deep bass greeted his ears.

‘Superbabe’, the _stripper_ in red and blue strutted forward from where the curtains had parted, and ran her hand down the pole seductively. Clark, wide-eyed, turned to Zatanna, who simply shrugged a shoulder and turned to the stage again.

‘Superbabe’ was almost naked except the skimpy lingerie she wore, blue like Superman’s uniform. She had a shimmering red cape trailing glitter behind her, and _oh_ \- a collar with the emblem of the House of El. Luscious locks reaching down her waist, with, _of course_ , Superman’s signature curl dangling on her face.

She took in all the patrons of the club, eyes finally landing on Clark. She tilted her head in a mock salute, much like, _Rao_ , much like the salute Superman usually gave to Batman before taking off for a new mission, _oh Rao_. She started moving with the music, hands running down her own body. The music picked up the tempo, and she climbed the pole, while Clark stared, open-mouthed.

Upside down, she smirked, and spread her legs, and Clark looked away, blushing. He looked at Zatanna again, who seemed to be really enjoying the dance.

“Told you she’s good,” she said without taking her eyes off the pole. “They said they wanted something new.”

The bass dropped, and Clark turned to the stage again. ‘Superbabe’ slid down the pole, legs gently folded almost like how Clark positioned himself when he landed. Her stilettoes touched the ground, the cape pooling behind her, and she slid down till her knees touched the floor, and then looked at Clark again. She smiled and dropped a wink at him.

Clark squirmed in his seat.

She got up, biting the cape, hands in her hair, moving back to the pole. She started grinding when the beat dropped again, gripping the pole above her head, hips moving slowly, sensuously, back arching.

Clark followed the curves, glasses slipping on his nose.

Getting on all fours, she crawled towards the edge of the stage, and turned over, arching her back. Her hand slid down, and she moaned, touching herself with the sultry music.

Clark’s heart skipped a beat. He could smell her arousal.

She sat back on her haunches, spreading her knees, and touched herself again, with the cape between her fingers, and Clark felt- oh, he felt almost as if this were _his_ cape, touching, caressing _his_ Bruce-

The stripper tilted her head, as if she could read the effects she was having on Clark, and parted her lips, sighing.

Her lips moved, and at the same time, the lights dimmed and the music ended. Clark sat up straight, heart beating hard. It seemed like the stripper had called out his name- _Kal El._

He turned to ask Zatanna _what_ in the fucking name of Rao was _that!?_ But he found himself alone, pants wet from where he had spilt the drink on himself. Oh great, _again_?

The lights came back on, a shade of magenta and plum, and the next girl took the stage. Clark was trying to clean himself when the scent hit his nose. Roses and berries, and a little obscured, but definitely there- Bruce.

‘Superbabe’ stood right beside him, and as soon as Clark met her eyes, she straddled him. The face was softer, feminine, but the eyes were the same- piercing, challenging; Bruce smirking behind the shadows.

“Superman,” she said, hands resting on his shoulders. “Always spilling champagne around me?”

_Rao, God of Light and Life!_ Bruce had seen it? Last time too?

“I-uh,” was all that Clark could get out when the woman started _grinding_ in his lap. Clark froze, hands midair.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, hands caressing his shoulders, downs to his wrists, which she pulled down to place on her hips. She leaned in, hair brushing his face, and kissed his ears, signature Bruce Wayne.

“Concerned, are we?” she whispered, hips moving with the music again. When Clark didn’t answer, she huffed, breasts brushing against him.

A spell had turned Bruce into the beautiful woman in Clark’s lap, and instead of resting while the spell wore off, as the League magicians had advised, Bruce had decided to close cases he couldn’t as a man. That included sealing the diplomatic deal at Themyscira, solving the case of the murdered nun in the females-only convent, and catching a politician who frequented this club red-handed. Of course, this was Bruce. Rest was not a word in his vocabulary. This brought a smile to Clark’s lips, which, _Gods,_ Bruce noticed.

She moved her hands to his hair, and breathed against his lips. “Did you like my show, _Kal-El_?”

Clark’s smile faded, and he swallowed, unable to break eye contact. Maybe coming here was not a good idea. Bruce could take care of herself, Clark could see that now. Just because he was in a different body didn’t mean he would need Superman to defend his honour.

“Superman is indeed, very … _demanded_ ,” she whispered, taking off Clark’s glasses. She pressed her body tight against Clark’s, who was galvanized with the touch.

“Oh?” She blinked, and Clark realized she must have felt what Clark was trying to hide since the moment ‘Superbabe’ had winked at him from the stage. She squirmed in his lap, as if confirming the hardness, and Clark gasped. _All the Gods from Krypton_ , he wanted more.

Bruce was never going to let him live this down, he was so sure. Cheeks burning, Clark looked away, only to meet her eyes again when she forced his chin towards herself.

Instead of a reprimand, what Clark faced was… dusk. Her eyes were dark, all supercilious smirks gone from her face. She leaned in, lips ghosting above his.

“Clark,” she said, but it sounded like Bruce, _his_ Bruce. Something broken beneath the glimmer. Clark’s hands twisted in the sofa’s velvet cover.

“I’ll be safe,” she whispered, a small smile on her face, and climbed off his lap. Clark felt a stab in his chest as the heat from her body faded. However, the right side of her lips tilted up, much like he had seen on Bruce, right when he was about to beat the _shit_ out of thugs. She hooked Clark’s glasses on the middle of her bra, pulling it down a little to tease Clark.

He swallowed, breath caught in his throat. ‘Superbabe’ winked and strutted away.

  

> Swim

Clark swivelled to avoid the miniaturized torpedo Black Manta had aimed at him. His movements were slow under water, and he narrowly avoided collision. He was having trouble distinguishing between aquatic life and telepathically controlled henchmen, and he couldn’t use half of his powers under water.

Normally the King of Atlantis would handle affairs below the surface, but Aquaman and Mera were on a rescue mission to the aquatic planet of C’Ordelia on behalf of the League, and when Siren had joined hands with Black Manta and attacked Atlantis in their absence, the responsibility of their defence fell on the League. Of course, Atlanteans could deal with the exiled princess on their own; it was the outsiders they wanted the League to handle. Black Manta and his crew would be subjected to Land Justice. If only Superman could catch him first.

Superman turned on the jet pack, aligning his body towards the direction Manta had disappeared. He was clumsy- this was _so_ different than flying. So unnatural. So sluggish.

He felt the drop in the temperature around him as the water got darker. He had tried to take the fight away from the civilians, but now he found himself in unfamiliar territory. A panicked shoal of fish quickly swam past him. _Uh_ , more unfamiliar than usual.

The fish had distracted him, and slow as he was underwater, he couldn’t avoid the harpoon one of the henchmen shot at him. It hit him in the face, dislocating his mask. But that also gave him an opening.

The thug had his defence down. Superman launched himself at the attacker, and grabbed at him clumsily. Nonetheless, the thug wasn’t expecting him to attack without his mask and was caught unawares.

Superman didn’t really _need_ to breathe, as much as he _liked_ to. Sure, the oxygen and sunlight were good for him, a source of strength. But he didn’t need them to stay alive. He hit the man with his head, rendering him unconscious, and laid him against a chunk of coral. He wasn’t wearing a battle suit the Atlanteans had offered, trusting his body more than the heavy suits which would only slow him down. Taking off his breathing apparatus, and a lot lighter than before, he turned towards the crew. They were out of sight against.

Turning on the jet pack, he started following the bubble trail they left behind them. Kelp floated out of reach, and bubbles appeared diaphanous. Clark felt a light pressure against his skull. The water grew colder.

As soon as he caught sight of Manta though, he felt a cramp seize his left leg. He screamed, underwater _, like an idiot_ , and swallowed a mouthful of salt water. Coughing, he found himself losing his balance. The ocean turned even darker. Strangely, the voice in his head calling him an idiot sounded like Batman.

Sunlight. Three days without sunlight. The League members were staying in Atlantis to catch the villains, and Clark hadn’t realized the absence of a yellow sun would start affecting him so soon. He tried to take a deep breath, out of habit, and swallowed more cold, salty water. This wasn’t right. He realized his body was starting to panic.

Oh, Rao, Batman would be _mad_ at him if he found out that Superman had died under water because some silly thug had knocked out his oxygen mask. His leg throbbed from the cramp, and his eyesight was starting to betray him. The water was pitch black… or was it him, closing his eyes? His other senses weren’t working either- he could barely hear anything except his own heartbeat drumming loudly.

His head was heavy, and his arms felt heavier- he couldn’t move them. The pain was building between his eyes, and he clenched them shut, unable to think. He felt brightness outside his eyelids, and opened them weakly. A soft blue light was moving towards him, and Clark didn’t even have the energy to panic. He simply floated in place.

The light came from a …body. The helmet lamp in a battle suit, he realized. His eyes closed, against his will. It took some effort, but he forced them open again. This time, the approaching body was right next to him. The helmet lamp illuminated Bruce’s eyes like the bioluminescent algae in a sea of stars in the tropics.

Clark tried to tell Bruce about his leg, but he couldn’t lift his arms. He could barely move his head, and he swallowed more water when he opened his mouth, _like an idiot again._

That’s not what the real Bruce said though. _Clark_ , he saw Bruce’s lips move from under the translucent mask. Bruce swam closer, and wrapped his legs around Clark’s legs to keep him from floating. He placed a choker around Clark’s neck, and before Clark could panic, a bubble-like helmet materialized around his head. The cold water drained out, leaving Clark gasping in shock, and Bruce touched his helmet to the bubble-like material, which gave away melting… _no,_ morphing. Some otherworldly Atlantean technology allowed Bruce to join their helmets together, and he pushed one hand against the bubble glass, which also gave away. Clark felt Bruce’s hot breath against his lips.

Bruce pinched Clark’s nose and tilted his head back, and if Clark had the strength, he would’ve definitely flailed his arms and legs. But he just watched through the darkness as Bruce closed his lips around his, and breathed. There was something squeezing his chest in rhythmic intervals. His leg throbbed.

Clark couldn’t breathe, and he lost count of how many times Bruce gave him breaths, the squeezing around his chest getting tighter.

On the seventh (seventeenth? seventieth?) breath, he felt his lungs burning and pushed Bruce away as he threw up water. Bruce’s helmet detached itself from Clark’s, but he still had his legs wrapped around Clark’s legs. He watched Clark cough and throw up salt water, which his bubble helmet absorbed immediately.

“Bruce”, Clark croaked, his throat burning, his lungs burning. Bruce unwrapped his legs, and took a spider-like device off of Clark’s chest- the thing that must be squeezing his chest, Clark guessed feebly.

He swam away, and Clark gasped in panic. He didn’t swim far though, he went down instead, and Clark snapped his head down- which was a bad idea in itself. The pressure hit his head again, and he clenched his eyes shut.

He opened them when he left a warmth clasp around his throbbing calf. The one with the cramp. He slowly looked down to see Bruce fixing an anklet-like cusp around his leg. The cramp eased.

Bruce swam up to his eye level again, and Clark noticed the cord connecting his choker helmet to Bruce’s suit. Oxygen. And for the first time, Bruce smiled at him. The gentle smile of a mother encouraging her son who had come last in a race. The darkness eased. He hooked his arm under Clark’s.

“Can you hold onto me, Superman?” Bruce’s lips moved, and Clark could hear his voice in his own helmet. He nodded, wrapping his arms around the battle suit.

“Let’s go home,” Bruce’s voice sounded mechanic through the helmet, but Clark caught the gentleness nonetheless. He realized he had stopped panicking.

“Manta?” He asked, his throat raw.

“Diana,” came the one-word reply.

Bruce turned on his thrusters in his suit, and Clark watched themselves move through the water, slowly but swiftly. Bruce kept checking on him after every few minutes, and Clark noticed his eyes glowing in the helmet light. It was almost as if Bruce wasn’t swimming- he was flying. Like an angel in a lullaby.

Clark found himself slipping into a warm sleep as he watched the fish move behind Bruce’s head. He was safe.

  

> Fall

“Fuck, it’s Superman,” cursed a harsh voice.

“Fuck,” gasped the second kidnapper.

“What do we do now!?” asked the third.

The fourth one, silent, shot his gun in the air, and hostages screamed.

“Shut up,” he ordered, clearly the leader. “Now look here,” he said, lifting the gun to Bruce’s temple, who paled in response. “Get out, or this Prince of Gotham will have the new hospital walls painted with his brains”.

“Oh, no,” Bruce panted, “anything but _that_!”

The boss smirked, impressed by his own shrewdness, and it was all Clark could do not to burst out laughing.

Clark was in his apartment, alone, working on his new article. His mind, as always, had drifted off to Bruce, and he subconsciously found his heartbeat. Slow and steady, as he expected. Bruce was probably in the annual Gotham Charity Ball tonight. He had covered the event the previous year… and Bruce had, uh, flirted with him to keep up his appearances. Clark would’ve liked to attend the event this year too, but Perry had assigned it to some junior reporter, telling him to focus on his own work.

He was in the middle of his gorging down second pop tart when the heartbeats around Bruce had started going crazy. It was still too early for Bruce to be on his patrol. Something was not right. He had changed into his uniform and was out of the window before the pop tart hit the floor.

He had watched the kidnappers from outside, watched them gather the guests of the Ball in the main hall, watched Bruce being unable to slip into his uniform, watched him distract the kidnappers with silly talk every time they tried to attack any of the guests. Watched him calm down a little girl, hiding her under the draping table cloth. Watched him place himself as a more profitable target when the kidnappers were settling on a bargaining hostage. Watched him raise his eyebrows when Superman burst in through the windows.

_About time?_ His eyes had asked.

And now Clark watched him manipulate the boss into thinking that putting a gun against Bruce Wayne was the smartest thing to do. When he looked at Clark, his eyes were grinning, even though he put on a mask of grief.

_Oh, Rao and Yuda_ , Bruce gave a gentle nod, and Clark instinctively knew. He knew this was the signal, for Bruce kicked the boss, and slipped away. Clark took care of his three inferiors within a matter of seconds. However, the boss had recovered by then, and raised his gun at the hostages, and Clark watched Bruce as he, very elegantly, “slipped’ and threw himself, and the boss, through the French window. However, Superman had also noticed the decorative curtain Bruce had hooked around the kidnapper’s leg, and he almost rolled his eyes as he flew towards the falling men.

He flew past the dangling mobster, and when he reached Bruce, he did roll his eyes. Bruce was very calm, arms crossed across his chest, as if he wasn’t plummeting down seventy floors. When he noticed Superman, he smirked.

Clark gently caught him, slowing down the descent. Bruce nodded, as if he had foreseen all this the moment Superman had broken in through the glass window. Holding Bruce felt both soft and hard at the same time, and Clark wanted to hold him forever.

When they neared the ground, Bruce wrapped his arms around Superman’s neck, as if holding on to him. Clark could smell his aftershave and his cologne. His heart skipped a beat.

As soon as Bruce’s feet touched the ground, they were surrounded by paparazzi and policemen.

“Oh, Mister Superman!” Bruce flailed. “Thank you so much! How could I ever repay you for saving my life?” He cried for the cameras.

“No problem, Mister Wayne,” Clark declared in his Superman voice, body missing Bruce’s warmth. He turned to the Commissioner of Gotham to neutralize the short circuit in his heart, when he felt a tug on his cape.

“I- Wha?” Clark started, but before he could get anything out, Bruce placed one hand on his jaw, turning his face, the other hand wrapped in his cape, and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you again, Mister Superman,” he said, his face grateful, but his eyes twinkling with mischief. The cameras clicked and clicked and clicked.

  

> Thrust

Superman sat cross-legged in the air, cape fluttering as he floated in place. He tilted his head, arms crossed, deep in thought.

The light in the master bedroom was on.

This was Clark’s usual spot for whenever he needed to- _uh_ , wanted to- observe Bruce. Just outside the Bat’s perimeter sensors, and yet close enough that he could hear Bruce move about in the manner.

He knew this was wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stop closing his eyes and listening to the movements of Bruce’s body.

It was addicting, guessing, no, _imagining_ what Bruce was doing at the given second. His movements had entranced Clark, whether in fight or flight, whether in the depth of meditation or in the throes of passion, whether confined against his will or posing for an audience. Clark had realized that he was amazed by the grace of Bruce’s body, no matter what he did. He could pick up his silhouette even in a dark room.

How could one man’s movements be so beautiful to the eyes? So hypnotizing?

When had Bruce cast this spell on him?

Oh, Rao, Clark laughed to himself. Bruce _was_ the spell.

He closed his eyes, concentrating, and found Bruce’s breath. His heartbeat. The water dripping from his hair as he stepped out of the shower.

Clark ought to feel guilty for spying on his …friend like this, but it wasn’t technically spying, was it? He had once stopped the Penguin from kidnapping Bruce only because Clark was, uh, “observing” Bruce, just like this. He told Bruce that he was simply “passing by” Gotham and dropped in to help so that Bruce could maintain his civilian image. He was seventy-three per cent sure Bruce didn’t believe him.

During the nights, at least this way, Bruce was his.

Over the years, he had heard, and thus pictured, Bruce change out of his uniform, fight with Alfred, muffle his laugh when Dick shared a terrible joke, sigh in frustration at the news channels talking about the latest mishaps of Gotham’s supervillains, sip the last drops of coffee as he burnt the midnight oil night after night.

He heard Bruce crack his spine after spending the night on his desk, heard him come late at home from patrol and fall straight on the bed without changing the bloodied inner garments of his uniform, heard him cry out in his nightmares, heard his body thrashing in the midst of a panic attack. He never approached Bruce, no matter how much he ached. Bruce would never forgive him for this invasion of privacy. But he was there, making sure that if something really bad happened, something Bruce couldn’t handle himself, Clark could step in.

He also heard his better nights, heard the rasp in his breath decrease as his lung healed from a bullet injury, heard him turn the pages of a book from his father’s library on nights he came home early from patrolling, heard his choked gasps whenever he bought home the occasional fling to maintain his bad boy reputation. On these nights, Clark listened more intently. Bruce was a silent lover, and all Clark would hear were the moans from his partners, and the gentle (and occasionally rough) sounds of body against body. Oh, how Clark would ache then, to see what Bruce looked like, to see how he moved, how controlled, or uncontrolled his body was.

He heard the whisper of satin on skin; Bruce must have changed to whatever he would be wearing tonight to bed. Clark heard the click of the switches, and he saw the lights in the master bedroom dim. Heard Alfred taking his leave. Bruce must be turning in for the night.

Hearing Bruce falling asleep was a salve to Clark. Ah, if only he could see it too, watch the rise and fall of his chest, watch the creases on his face ease, watch the silk bedsheets play with his skin.

Clark had his mind on the imagery, and maybe that’s why he was seconds late realizing that Bruce’s breath was faster than usual. He frowned and listened more intently. _There_ , the heartbeat was faster than what Bruce normally maintained too.

Clark’s body immediately took a fight stance, but he still hesitated.

He heard footsteps.

Getting closer.

He swallowed.

The French windows in the master bedroom opened, and he saw Bruce standing in the dark. Looking at him.

Seconds passed, and Bruce stood there, simply looking at him. Clark had frozen mid-air, the fluttering of his cape being the only movement between the two of them.

Then he heard Bruce swallow, and watched him recede into his room, leaving the window open for Clark. Heart thundering in his chest, he flew into the darkness.

He could explain. But how could Bruce understand the obsession, the madness? Would he believe that he had entranced Clark with the way he crouched, the way he sat, the way he stood, the way he brooded? With his powerful stances, with his stealth, with his agility?

Clark’s frown relaxed as he realized something for the first time.

Would he know how much he meant to Clark? How he couldn’t think about anybody else? How much he wanted him? For how long? How could he know when Clark had realized himself just now.

Clark wanted to tell him everything, but one look at Bruce’s eyes, and all words left him. He just stood there by the window, watching Bruce in the darkness.

He heard the skip in Bruce’s heartbeats before he heard him intake a breath.

“I know,” Bruce said, voice gravelly. Clark felt his knees weaken at the low timbre. Bruce cleared his throat and tried again. “Rather, I’ve known. For a while now.”

Known. Everything?

“Clark,” he said, his eyes dripping with dusk, the same look he had when he was straddling Clark in his female body.

Clark stopped breathing altogether. He stood still, the gossamer curtains flowing around him.

Bruce took a step forward, and the moonlight painted him- his naked torso and his satin pyjamas and the dip of his scars and the silver hair here and there. Oh, and Clark was only so much Superman.

He supersped close to Bruce and pushed him on the bed, climbing on top of him. Bruce breathed out as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs and Clark realized he himself was panting, sucking in air after a long time. How long had he held his breath?

Seeing him from this perspective, hair spilling on the silken pillows, eyes glittering, parted lips. Oh venerated Rao, Clark’s eyes followed the gentle movements of his lips moving as he breathed in, and before he could move, he felt a hand snake into his hair, and another grabbing him by the cape, and he was being pulled down.

Pulled _in_ to Bruce, who kissed him, and Clark felt his body move in response.

He felt Bruce’s palm slide down from his cape, over his shoulders, and down to his thundering heart. Bruce’s calf on his waist and before Clark could even think what was happening, Bruce _pushed_ and flipped them over. In retrospection, Clark couldn’t think really, with Bruce’s tongue teasing his lips and all.

And now Bruce sat on top of him, bathed in the moonlight, grinning like he’d just won a bout.

“I thought you had superspeed,” he said, smile sharp.

“I need a better teacher I suppose,” Clark said, smiling in return.

Bruce hmm’ed, smile fading into a lop-sided smirk, lifting just the left side of his lips, eyes burning bright. Clark’s smile faded altogether. The look in Bruce’s eyes- it was the Bat’s predator smirk. He wondered about the courage Gotham’s supervillains must have, to stand against the Batman after receiving one of his killer (literally) smirks.

Clark felt Bruce’s hand slither down to his, Bruce holding his hand, lifting it, and placing it on the emblem on his chest.

“Wha-“ Clark started, but Bruce pushed his hand down, flattening Clark’s palm on the emblem.

“You know,” Bruce whispered, “you were not the only one watching.”

The uniform detected Clark’s fingerprints, and started folding in on itself, leaving Clark cold and vulnerable in the Bat’s grasp, who enshrouded him from all sides. How did Bruce know how to take off the Kryptonian uniform?

Bruce leaned close, hair falling in his eyes, and may Yuda have mercy, Clark wanted to kiss the hair, and the eyebrow which Bruce had raised so many times at him, so many times that Clark had felt it, even through the lead-lined cowl.

Clark swallowed, uncertain how long he’d be able to hold himself back.

Bruce though, took that as a hint to attack Clark’s throat. When Clark tried to raise his hands to pull Bruce’s closer, he felt Bruce pinning them down, and for a second, Clark _forgot_ that he could still raise his arms if he wanted.

Oh, and then Bruce thrust his hips, and Clark forgot his own name.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I know CPR doesn't work like that in our world. Clark was still conscious, even with water in his lungs because of his Kryptonian biology.


End file.
